


too great to be described in words

by Issay



Series: One-shot collection [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypse, Author went a tad crazy with style, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Nonsense, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Headcanon, Heaven & Hell, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24443209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: “How's the husband?” asks one of the manicure girls and the angel feels blood drop to his toes.“Fantastic,” he manages before changing the topic quickly and he can see the looks exchanged, the 'oh that older generation' unspoken fond comments. But it is true, they act like an old married couple, Aziraphale thinks while picking up Ethiopian for dinner and knowing precisely what to order.There's an intimacy to their way of living these days, the one that comes only after years of knowing and loving someone, of paying attention to such details as which jam is the last one to be finished (strawberry) or the favorite pillowcase. They move seamlessly around in the small kitchen, like choreographed except not, and they touch oh so often these days.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: One-shot collection [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/640094
Comments: 5
Kudos: 107





	too great to be described in words

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this one came from.

In the beginning, there was a garden, an apple, and the smell of first rain, and a flaming sword. Well, not the sword, rather an absence of such flaming sword which was the actual starting point of it all. The absent sword and the sadness shared by a very unlikely couple, watching the slowly disappearing shadows of first humans in the distance and listening to the first roar of the thunderstorm. There, on the walls of the Garden, angel Aziraphale looked at the demon Crowley, and thought:  _he is mine to thwart, mine to keep watch over. Mine and mine alone._

And the demon Crowley looked at the angel Aziraphale and thought:  _oh, shit_ .

In the Heavenly Archives every angel has their own record: performance reviews, self-evaluation, occasional note in Metatron's handwriting about their part in the general plan of creation, and of course a page from End of Days scenario. From time to time one of the archivists will amend the files, add a few pages or so once about every century. It's a standard procedure and as everybody knows, Heaven enjoys its standard operating procedures. So for some bizarre reason no one has ever updated angel Aziraphale's records – they're just a gray thin folder no archivist ever reaches for. If one would be so brave, they would find a post-it with a note „mind your own business!” in a childish scrawl.

But no one ever is.

If the Demonic Archives weren't in such a disarray (hellfire is, well, hell on the paper records and there is no will to go digital, also there was some flooding in the third millennium when Acheront had a particularly rainy season and overflown), a similar file could be found for the demon Crowley. The exact same pink post-it would be inside.

However, no one has ever looked for his record.

Interesting, isn't it.

So angel Aziraphale sticks to his demon. Never too far away from him, always keeping watch. It's easier to know your opposition, obviously, that was the only reason. Know thy enemy, and so on. This is why Aziraphale is there when Crowley watches the falling rain on the fifth day of the unstoppable downpour. The demon looks at the swelling rivers with something that seems to be sadness. Yes, Aziraphale decides with absolute surprise, the demon looks completely miserable.

It's the same expression that he has as they watch the Messiah die, standing side by side for hours until it is done.

He sees it again and again throughout centuries, every time humanity fails Crowley to be, well, human. This eternal sadness in demonic eyes when houses are being burned with still living plague victims inside them, on the walls of Jerusalem during crusades, in Spain during Inquisition, through wars and revolutions. It's there when Napoleon's army escapes Russia without strength to bury the dead, and in the trenches of the Somme. You see, angels are told to love all Her creation in an impersonal way, it's just a job like anything else. Crowley mourns the dead child in 12 th century France and the queen who walks to her own death during Great French Revolution alike. They're together in the cinema in 1945 when the chronicle shows all about concentration camps and Aziraphale hast to lead the trembling demon out, guide him to the bookshop and force tea with whiskey down his throat. It takes more than a bottle to finally calm him down and Crowley slips into deep sleep on the angel's comfortable couch.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, heart painfully swelling with a feeling he does not wish to look closely at. He reaches for a blanket and spreads it over the demon's curled figure, hoping it will keep him warm enough. After a moment of thought, he adds one more knitted plaid over it just to be sure. And then his own overcoat, just to be sure, even though it's ridiculous. Crowley mumbles something in his slumber.

The angel leans in and, not able to fight the temptation any longer, brushes the gentlest of kisses over Crowley's brow. The demon's forehead clears and he looks less troubled, more at peace (his skin smells pleasantly of sandalwood and ash, not like Aziraphale feared – of sulfur).

“Sweet dreams,” the angel murmurs and moves to sit in the comfortable armchair nearby with a stack of books, guarding his demon.

The one thing Aziraphale is too scared to say out loud: he thinks Crowley would be a better angel than he is.

Oh, not by the corporate standards of course, by them he would terrible: he would never submit reports on time, and his paperwork would be spotty, and he'd probably drive his immediate supervisor nutty. But Aziraphale suspects that his idea about loving creation and humanity is closer to what She has intended than Heaven's is. He would probably meet some infernal flames from up close if he even dared to say it, no doubt about it. But the way Crowley believes in humanity, and the human spirit, is inspiring. It makes Aziraphale question heavenly policies, it makes him question his own decision. So as an experiment he makes a point to learn names of those who surround him, to know their daily struggles and sorrows, and he finds love in it. He's proud of those amazing, resilient humans as they rebuilt, rejoin their families, help out their community.

“I'm scared,” he confesses to Crowley one night in the sixties when they're drunk and sitting on the floor of the bookshop sometime after midnight. “I'm scared that if I start questioning the plans, the policies, the whole approach, I'll fall and I don't think I'd do well in Hell.”

The demon sighs and there's something soft in the sound, perhaps almost tender.

“I'd help you if it came to it,” Crowley says, words slurring slightly. “Take you under my wing, so to speak. But you won't fall, 'Zira. You're Her beloved child, She wouldn't let them kick you out.”

“You're forgetting we saw Her kill Her beloved child before,” the angel reminds sadly, pouring more wine into their glasses. Crowley shakes his head, his hair flying everywhere.

“She wouldn't do that to you. It's been millennia since the last angel fell, remember?”

Aziraphale only takes another sip of his wine, uncertain, unconvinced.

Sometimes it takes a little push. Another times, it takes an entire bloody Apocalypse.

Of course, Apocalypse doesn't happen because of some old prophecies, a little boy's love for his true parents, one angel and one demon. Not a particularly angelic angel or a particularly evil demon, mind you. Just two exhausted, scared celestial beings who'd like some coffee and a little bit of rest, thank you very much, the last eleven years were really tough, you know. But they hold on to hope and to each other and, in the end, all is well – Adam goes back to his parents, Anathema burns some more prophecies, and they return to London which miraculously is still there.

“Stay at my place,” says the demon and the pleading in his voice is too much for Aziraphale to resist. He nods.

“Of course, my dear.”

The earth shakes, just a little.

Aziraphale feels empty as he steps into the demon's modern and fancy apartment, tired and empty, and perhaps a little bit in shock. Baffled, if he's being honest. He plops onto the uncomfortable leather couch, hands empty, defeated. Slowly, hesitantly Crowley perches up next to him, shoulders touching.

“So it's been a day, huh?” the demon starts softly and Aziraphale starts laughing. It begins as a chuckle, then evolve into a belly-deep laugh, and ends on a hysterical note – or at least the angel tries to end it there, but the sound continues and before he realizes, he's weeping bitterly. The six thousand years of prim and proper angelic posture, with feelings under strict control to not feel too much and not ask about too many things, to not fall, finally let go. Aziraphale cries his fear and relief out, and regret for not doing enough and for not caring for all he could have. Everything previously repressed now floods out and drips onto Crowley's perfectly polished floors. 

“Let it out,” the demon murmurs, awkwardly rubbing Aziraphale's back. With a whisper of unseen feathers, Crowley shuffles even closer, the long line of his body shielding his friend – his angel – from the outside world. The world helpfully leans a little bit to the left, and then reality does its thing, and Aziraphale weeps bent in half, with his face somehow hidden in Crowley's shirt. Reality nods to itself approvingly when the demon after a moment's hesitation wraps his arms around the angel and holds on desperately.

“I'm so sorry, dear,” Aziraphale says when finally the downpour ends, and he's lightheaded, and Crowley's body is pleasantly warm under his cheek. The demon, unashamedly petting his hair, makes only a small noise, something torn between “you're welcome” and “for my sake, I beg you, don't move”. Instead of moving the angel miracles away the wetness and the little bit of snot his body produced.

“Your bookshop burned,” Crowley says quietly after another long moment passes, time stretching like a very lazy cat. “The bookshop burned and you weren't there, and I went in to look for you but couldn't touch the heavenly runes, you know.”

“Oh, my dear.”

Crowley's hold on him tightens momentarily before relaxing completely. With a feeling of loss, Aziraphale sits up straight, the muscles of his back protesting violently. Crowley looks troubled.

“I'll always do my best to come back,” he says sincerely, grasping one of Crowley's hands. Their fingers tangle and there's something final about it when the demon nods.

It doesn't change anything. And yet, in a way, it changes absolutely everything.

The bookshop is by Adam's miracle completely fine (with a small difference when it comes to its contents and also some confused dimensions, and Aziraphale keeps finding rooms that weren't there before and some that are there only on Tuesday) and they still meet every couple of days there. No, actually, if you really look at it they meet every day for tea or drink, for a conversation or quiet reading, for companionship. By the end of the month Crowley practically moves in and there's a room for him as well, and it's natural for Aziraphale to make a cup of coffee for him in the morning, or to slip the demon a book he thinks he'll enjoy (he usually does). It's homely and safe, with both Heaven and Hell keeping their distance after being so thoroughly fooled, that it makes Aziraphale relax into it. Crowley has always been a part of his life, now just observed from closer distance than he's used to. No problem. At least... Yes, that.

“How's the husband?” asks one of the manicure girls and the angel feels blood drop to his toes. 

“Fantastic,” he manages before changing the topic quickly and he can see the looks exchanged, the 'oh that older generation' unspoken fond comments. But it is true, they act like an old married couple, Aziraphale thinks while picking up Ethiopian for dinner, knowing precisely what to order. 

There's an intimacy to their way of living these days, the one that comes only after years of knowing and loving someone, of paying attention to such details as which jam is the last one to be finished (strawberry) or the favorite pillowcase. They move seamlessly around in the small kitchen, like choreographed except not, and they touch oh so often these days. Their love is like that perfectly comfortable pair of slippers: warm, and well-familiar, and missed when not there.

Aziraphale smiles softly. Suddenly the cold day seems a lot nicer, and the sky has a nice sheen to it, and oh maybe it will snow? That would make their flat seem cozy, perfect for a spot of cocoa with just a splash of whiskey. 

Angel Aziraphale understands in a split second for which what is ineffable becomes obvious, that he is in love with the demon Crowley. Reality trembles its approval. London doesn't notice, and life goes on.

“Honey, I'm home,” he calls out when he enters the apartment above the shop, and Crowley rolls his eyes so hard the angel can hear it.

“What took you so long? I'm ready to starve to death, and I've already opened the wine...”

Outside snow starts to gently cover London's hustle and bustle while Crowley's droning sounds like heavenly music to Aziraphale's ears. 


End file.
